Seven Deadly Shots
by Jay'sWings
Summary: Post HLV: Sherlock made a vow to protect John and Mary and always be there for them. Now that Magnussen has been eliminated, there are only seven people who remain that pose a threat to John, and only one person who knows who they are. Jim Moriarty. And he isn't going to help Sherlock without a price; the consulting detective's heart. Sherlock/Moriarty
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock! Sherlock belongs to its rightful and respected owners! Enjoy!

Heads up! Don't read this if you haven't seen His Last Vow and don't want spoilers, because this contains loads!

Ch. 1- A Fallen Angel

It was a moonless night as Sherlock trekked through the streets of London, his coat collar up not just for its usual decorative purposes, but also to block the consulting detective's neck from the howling wind. The wind blew and whirled around Sherlock, pushing against his back and propelling him closer and closer to his destination. Without the wind, Sherlock might not have been able to move at all. He had no desire to reach his destination. Rather, he would have loved nothing more than to turn around and sprint back to 221B Baker Street. But the one time he began to turn, a strong gust snapped him back to facing forward, and with a sigh, Sherlock continued on.

His walk was nearly twenty five minutes long. Not wanting any record of his route via a cab fare or a tube ticket, Sherlock had resolved to make the journey on foot. No doubt Mycroft's cameras had caught sight of him, but he would lose his annoying older brother's watchful eye upon reaching his end point. Turning a corner, the detective began to see his end point, and his mouth went dry. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Sherlock quickly paced toward the building, trying to keep his mind on something that would calm him down.

He almost always kept thinking of John. Of his army doctor, in a warm bed somewhere with his new wife Mary sleeping beside him. The two of them, together and happy, with a little bundle of joy on the way. Sherlock grimaced, placing his hand over his chest as his scar began to tingle. It always stung whenever Sherlock thought about _her_. About Mary.

As much as Sherlock loved John and loved the idea of John and Mary being together, he would never be able to trust Mary again. He wasn't sure that he would even be able to ever like her again. It wasn't very easy to forgive the person who shot him, even if said person was just trying to protect the one she loved. But perhaps Sherlock wasn't just sickened by Mary, but also sickened by the fact that he had allowed sentiment to rule over him, blinding him from the obvious.

Stupid. He had been so very stupid. And John was stupid too. Stupid for forgiving Mary so easily, and for allowing her back into his life easier than he had allowed Sherlock, his best friend. Jealousy and anger coursed through Sherlock, and he again considered turning around. What he was about to do would preserve John and Mary's life together; it would preserve the stupidity. Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to come back to Baker Street, and for things to be the way they used to be, without Mary.

But once again, his thoughts went back to John. He was doing this for John, fulfilling his last vow so that he could protect his best friend from the dangers that he and his wife now faced. With this resolution, Sherlock continued to move toward the entrance to the building, slowing down as he reached the high-vaulted, steel doors guarded by two men with machine guns. When neither guard spoke or went to move, Sherlock coughed and spoke,

"I have an appointment."

"We know Mister Holmes," one of the guards spoke brusquely. "We've been expecting you."

With that, the doors behind them opened slowly, and they parted, forming an entrance for Sherlock. Gulping, Sherlock passed them and entered the building, slightly scared yet also exhilarated at the possibilities this place held for him and his future. Hearing footsteps behind him, Sherlock realized the guards must have followed him inside. He was slightly surprised that they hadn't bothered to search him, but he supposed that they were told by their boss not to worry. The younger Holmes boy wasn't there for any killing spree, but rather a negotiation.

This thought made Sherlock uneasy, so he pushed it out of his head and began to observe anything he could. No windows, solid walls, floor on a slight angle; they were going underground. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He had never enjoyed going underground; too much darkness and dirt. Too many surprises in store for him. The clang of the guards' guns against their metal belts however, told Sherlock that he wouldn't be able to turn back now. There was only forward. From now until the end of this ordeal, there was only forward.

They walked down the corridor for a few more minutes before coming upon a single door. Sherlock analyzed it, his stomach clenching. The lock on the door was accessed by the outside. If the guards were ordered to, and no doubt they were, Sherlock could be locked in the room from the outside. Still, this information didn't slow him down. He neared the door, pushing on it before he was roughly tapped on the shoulder. When he peered over the shoulder, the guard who had spoken earlier was right behind him.

"We're not coming in with you Mr. Holmes, but if you try anything, you will meet a most unfortunate end."

"What a dull threat," Sherlock snapped, turning back to the door and thrusting it open. He stepped into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. As he had expected, there was a small click, indicating that Sherlock was indeed locked in. As to who he was locked in with, Sherlock only had to turn around to see the furniture that occupied the small quarters. A large desk took up most of the space, with two chairs facing either side. One of the chairs, the smaller of the two, was empty, and no doubt his. The other chair, a big leather one with a tall back, was faced in the opposite direction.

"Sit my dear."

The high, sing-song voice that Sherlock hadn't heard for so long echoed slightly as Sherlock grimaced, sitting in his chair. He couldn't believe this was actually happening.

The chair was spinning, legs were crossing and lips were stretching into a tight, psychotic smile. Sherlock sat face to face with Jim Moriarty once again.

"Sherlock," the consulting criminal cooed. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Can't say the same about you," Sherlock replied. While Moriarty still resembled the dangerous criminal from the past, there were some marked differences. Jim's suit fit a little more snug, but Sherlock could tell it wasn't from fat, but rather, muscle. Wherever Moriarty had been, he had been a bit more active than usual. A thin layer of fine-groomed stubble was spread across the criminal's chin, making Jim look older than before.

"Do you like the new look?" Jim cocked an eyebrow flirtatiously.

"Ages you," came Sherlock's short response.

"Really?" Jim mocked surprise before rolling his eyes. "You know Sherlock, sometimes age isn't always a bad thing. It can mean more experience, more wisdom, and more...skill at certain things. I've had quite a lot of experiences since our little game."

"As have I," Sherlock spoke.

"I know," Moriarty said without hesitation. "It seems you were quite busy with Charles Augustus Magnussen...well at least for a little while."

"He had to be eliminated," Sherlock explained, shifting in his seat. He was uncomfortable enough thinking about the man who had outsmarted him, let alone having Moriarty scrutinize his stupidity right in front of him.

"Curious you never thought of shooting me." Now Jim began to look around the room, absentmindedly strumming the desk. Sherlock couldn't help it, he followed Jim's gaze even though he knew the criminal wasn't looking at anything in particular. He was all the more unprepared when Moriarty snapped back to glare at him.

"Or was that because I couldn't turn your stomach like _him_?"

Sherlock grimaced. So Moriarty had heard that.

"I...might have been a bit dramatic," Sherlock quipped. "He _was_ a real threat."

"Oh please Sherlock," Jim rolled his eyes. "Maybe if you weren't busy following John and Mary around like a _dog,_ you would have been clever enough to beat him without being dull."

"I do not follow John and Mary around like a dog!" Sherlock protested, but Jim just smirked, knowing he had found Sherlock's pressure point.

"Oh please," the criminal continued, "it's been rather sad watching you tote on him, making that idiotic vow that you would protect him at all costs. I'm assuming that's why you're here anyway, something to do with John and that trigger happy wife of his. You wouldn't break into a high security prison to tell Sebastian Moran, my second in command, that you wanted to meet with me only to have a friendly chat."

A long silence followed this. Sherlock weighed his options, tempted to tell Jim the straight truth or to try and get out now, while Jim was refusing to help him. He could back out now, if he said the right things that would just get Moriarty pissed and make the criminal order him out.

And yet, Sherlock couldn't lie to the consulting criminal, mainly because he needed Jim's help and also because... Well, Sherlock would just stick with the first reason, he didn't want to think he had an ulterior motive buried in his subconscious. He decided to settle on a compromise, half truth and half lie.

"I...I want to leave them Jim," Sherlock hated how desperate he sounded. "I can't handle it anymore. It was alright when John was working with me; I was at the peak of my intelligence and efficiency in crime solving. But sentiment is ruining everything. John has become more of a hindrance to the work than a benefit to it."

At this, Moriarty raised an eyebrow. Apparently he hadn't been expecting _that_. It wasn't entirely a lie, Sherlock really was considering leaving London; sentiment was making him weaker by the day. Soon he would be just like everyone else, and he would lose the one gift that made him special.

"So you want to make sure there's no one else out there who's going to target John?" Jim put two and two together. "How do you know I won't come after him?"

"Well I was hoping that would be part of our agreement," Sherlock spoke hesitantly. This was it, the moment all of his apprehension and excitement and fear had been leading up to. Moriarty smiled, and leaned over the desk, his face now very close to Sherlock's.

"And our agreement is?" the consulting criminal's eyes were dilated with excitement, and it was all Sherlock could do to not show his fear and stand his ground.

"You will help me hunt down the remaining people that know of Mary's past and pose a threat to her and to John. And you yourself will promise not to interfere with John's life once we are finished. In return, while we are working together, I will follow all of your orders, and hunt down the targets on your terms."

"You'll work for me?" Jim's wide grin showed his dangerous level of excitement. He leaned back into his chair, eyes cloudy as he began to think about the arrangement. Sherlock watched the consulting criminal think it over for a few moments before a look of victory crossed the consulting criminal's face. Slowly, Jim got up from his chair and walked over to where Sherlock remained seated. The air was tense as Moriarty stood behind Sherlock for a minute or so, and the consulting detective was about to speak when the criminal's hands clamped down onto his shoulders.

"An angel selling his soul to the devil," Jim's voice was laced with desire now. As he began to rub Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock did his best to remain still, but found himself shivering as a spark went off through his body. "I like the sound of that."

"Do we have a deal?" Sherlock grunted, already deeply afraid of what Moriarty had planned for him. He was at the mercy of a psychopath, of the man that had had an unhealthy obsession with him since day one. But what else could he do? Jim was essential to his plan on protecting John.

Jim's grip on Sherlock tightened as he bent down so his mouth was an inch from the detective's ear.

"We, my dear, have a deal."

* * *

My new story in light of His Last Vow and the amazing ending! -LJ


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock! Sherlock belongs to its rightful and respected owners! Enjoy!

Ch. 2-Give and Take

"What do you mean you're leaving?" John's incredulous question echoed throughout the flat, as the military doctor stood in the middle of the main room with a mixture of anger and confusion on his face.

"I mean, I'm removing myself from the country of England for a period of time," came Sherlock's smart response from the bedroom where he was packing a small suitcase full of clothes. As he folded his clothes and placed them lightly in his bag, Sherlock had to take deep breaths. He hated the thought that he was abandoning John like this, but he just kept telling himself that he had to do this for John's safety.

As he was thinking to himself, Sherlock's phone lit up with a ding that meant he had received a text message. Picking up the phone hesitantly, as he could only assume who was texting, Sherlock opened the message.

**Pack your purple shirt. -JM **

At this confusing message, Sherlock growled and typed back,

**Why? -SH**

It didn't take long for his phone to light up again, only this time it did so twice, with two dings.

**Because I said so. **

**And don't bother arguing. x -JM**

Making a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh, Sherlock searched through his drawers to find his purple dress shirt at the bottom, still folded from the last time Mrs. Hudson did his laundry. Pulling out the silky fabric, Sherlock tossed it onto the bed, moping around and trying to find something to keep himself occupied with besides packing.

"Who keeps texting you?" John's both curious and suspicious question came from down the hall.

"Client," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He couldn't think of anyone else, if he said Molly or Lestrade, John could easily ask and find out he was lying, and saying that Mycroft was texting him was risky, because John knew that Mycroft didn't like to text.

So of course, as soon as Sherlock said this, his phone rang out.

**You're **_**my**_** client. -JM**

Sherlock, having had enough, threw the phone away from him and continued packing furiously. Stuffing his clothes and toiletries into his bag, he stormed out of the room and nearly ran into John, who was coming down the hall to find the consulting detective.

"Sherlock, I...I still can't believe you're just leaving," John's tone softened, and Sherlock forced himself to remain calm as he turned to his best friend.

"It's just work John, I'll be back."

"If it's just work," John protested, "why can't I come with you?"

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a few chemicals he was planning on packing. When he didn't get an answer, John followed quickly behind the detective, brow furrowed. He stood in the middle of the kitchen for what seemed like ages as Sherlock whirled by him, seemingly oblivious to his best friend.

"Sherlock!" John finally snapped, breaking the silence.

"What John?" Sherlock hissed back. "What?! You're going to go with me? Oh, so you're just going to leave Mary and the baby alone then. Right, because that's going to happen."

John started back at Sherlock's shouting, before regaining his composure and speaking as calmly as possible.

"Mary can take care of herself Sherlock, I have no doubts about that."

"And I have no doubts that you won't leave her," Sherlock replied, before leaving the kitchen. John stood, hands on his head, trying to not let his emotions get the best of him. In reality, he would love to go on an adventure with Sherlock throughout Europe. He needed time away from Mary to sort out his exact feelings about her, because when he forgave her, he was only doing it so Sherlock could focus all of his attention on Magnussen and not be weighed down by their fighting. In hindsight, it was pretty useless, as Magnussen still targeted Sherlock somewhat successfully, besides the part where Sherlock killed the blackmailer. Guilt coursed through John at the thought of that night, as John blamed himself for Sherlock becoming a murderer for him and Mary.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John brought himself out of his thoughts and left the kitchen, walking back into the living room where Sherlock was searching through the various piles of paper scattered across the room.

"I'd go with you before I'd let you go alone," John spoke shakily. This earned him a skeptic glare from his best friend before the detective went back to rummaging.

"John, I don't see why you're making such a big deal about this, if anything you should be happy," came Sherlock's reply. "I'm telling you that I'm going to leave this time."

"Not funny," John sighed.

"Wasn't trying to be."

Upon saying this, Sherlock grabbed a few papers and stood up, walking towards his room. But before he could leave, John grabbed his arm, forcing the detective to stop ignoring him.

"Sherlock," John whispered. Knowing he couldn't resist forever, Sherlock looked at John, who stared back with concern. In this instant, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to let John go with him, to beg the army doctor to come with him as they hunted all across Europe.

But the startling ding that came from his room reminded him of why he couldn't do that.

"I...I'll be safe John," Sherlock promised, detaching himself from John and going to his room. He appeared a few moments later with his suitcase and his coat on, collar turned up as always. It killed him to look at John, who seemed so small and scared at the thought of him leaving again.

"So this is goodbye?" John's voice sounded strained, like he had to force himself to say the words.

"For now, yes," Sherlock nodded. He went to depart, but on a whim, quickly dropped his suitcase and lunged at John for an awkward but heartfelt hug. The two embraced for a quick moment, before the detective pulled back just as quickly as he had wrapped around John. This seemed to cheer John up somewhat, and his best friend smiled and offered him a joking punch to the arm.

"Don't be getting into too much trouble," he joked.

"I won't," Sherlock smiled, happy to see John not as worried. "Goodbye John." Before John could reply, he grabbed his suitcase and bounded down the stairs. John watched out the window as Sherlock hailed a cab, giving 221B one last look before disappeared inside the car and was off.

"Goodbye Sherlock."

* * *

"Somebody get me an aspirin!"

The shrill voice sounded from down the hall, and immediately there was hustle, as a bottle of medication was grabbed within a moment's notice along with a glass of water (cool, not cold, just as boss wanted it). After the two items were placed on Jim Moriarty's desk, the consulting criminal barked at the grunt of low importance who had place them there to get out.

He had been in a particularly good mood today, until he watched the annoying little goodbye between Sherlock and his pet. God how he hated Dr. John Watson. The man was little more than a bug compared to him and Sherlock, but did that idiot consulting detective care? No, of course not. After spending years with a near abusive older brother who always derided him, why wouldn't Sherlock want his own personal cheerleader?

Swallowing the aspirin, Jim forced himself to see the positive side of the situation. Sherlock was on his way there at that very moment, ready to do whatever he was ordered. While it was for John's sake, Moriarty was up to the challenge of seeing how much the detective was doing this for John's sake, rather than his own desire to hunt and kill. It would take time for Jim to groom Sherlock until the consulting detective knew nothing more than crime, but Jim had always loved a challenge.

And Sherlock Holmes was the most challenging person he had ever met.

Fifteen minutes later, the cab stopped in front of Jim's office, what the rest of London thought was an old abandoned house that hadn't succumbed to destruction yet. However, Moriarty had skillfully hidden his operations beneath the house, and had managed to keep this place secret from Mycroft and all of those other government hounds.

Moriarty's ears pricked up as he heard the door open above him, and slow, calculated footsteps cross the threshold. His adrenaline began to course through his veins, and he had to force himself to calm down. It wouldn't do to have Sherlock see him in a state like this, not when Sherlock had to believe that Jim was in control. After a few moments, the footsteps were back, pacing quickly back and forth. Breathing in and out, Moriarty looked around the room to make sure everything was set up correctly. There wasn't much to check, just a simple wooden chair and the tattoo machine, but it gave the man some peace to be reassured that everything was ready to fall into place.

It gave Moriarty pleasure to know that today, Sherlock would begin his descent into darkness.

* * *

After pacing for a moment upstairs, Sherlock knew it was useless to stall any longer. Gathering his courage, he pushed open the door that led to the basement of the house, where he had been told that Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, was waiting for him. With each step and creak of the stairs, Sherlock felt like he was being pulled closer and closer toward the psychopath, and soon nothing would be able to pry him from Moriarty's grip. The feelings were ridiculous, but they still terrorized Sherlock nonetheless. As he placed his foot on the last step, the lights came on, and Sherlock, blinded, closed his eyes for a moment while they got adjusted. When he reopened them, he took in the sight before him. Jim Moriarty was standing before him, behind a chair, and looking at him with that same desire his gaze had held at their last meeting.

"Sit," came Jim's quick order. Not wanting to start anything just yet, Sherlock bit his lip and walked over slowly toward the chair before hesitantly sitting in it, watching Jim like a hawk the entire time.

"Well, _that_ was easy!" Immediately Jim's tone changed, to that fake joyous screeching that unnerved Sherlock so much. "If you follow orders that nicely Sherlock, we're going to get on fabulously!"

"As long as your orders help me track down my targets, I'll gladly follow them," Sherlock replied, trying not to let his voice crack.

"Of course!" Jim smiled widely, showing an array of white and sharp-looking teeth. "Speaking of business, I've got something for you!" Sherlock watched as the consulting criminal pull out a paper from his pocket. He walked over to the detective who was still seated, and pulling out a pen, placed the items in Sherlock's hands, letting his own fingers freeze for a moment against the detective's flesh before pulling them back.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked as he unfolded it.

"You're smart, you figure it out," Jim replied. After a few moments of scanning it, Sherlock's pensive gaze wavered. Moriarty watched eagerly as the detective held back a snarl and signed the paper. Folding the paper back up tightly, Sherlock threw it at Moriarty, who caught it with ease.

"You really are making this too easy for me," Jim smiled as he opened the piece of paper, pleased to see Sherlock's signature on the document, confirming that the Holmes boy would give himself over to the Moriarty crime organization and do whatever he was told.

"But I wonder," Moriarty's grin turned wolflike as he walked over to the tattoo machine. Sherlock's eyes followed him, and though he had a fair guess about what that was there for, he still gasped silently in revulsion. Dragging the machine over to where Sherlock was sitting so that the resulting screech would unnerve Sherlock even more, Moriarty grabbed a needle with jet black ink in it.

"Is this all a charade? A few nice gestures before you fight me tooth and nail and leave me once I've helped you with your little mission?" Sherlock's eyes never left the needle as Jim got close to him, edging him on with the taunting words.

"It's not a charade," the consulting detective finally choked out.

"Don't lie to me Sherlock Holmes," and Jim's tone changed again, changing to dead serious as the criminal threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, yanking at the curls so that Sherlock was looking at the ground, his neck exposed for Moriarty and his needle.

"I'm not going to let you slip through my grasp again, Sherlock Holmes," the words weighed on Sherlock's shoulders, and as hard as he fought to free himself from Jim's iron grip, he couldn't move.

"You're going to learn to appreciate me," Jim continued. "You're going to learn how much I can do for you. You're going to learn to _like_ me Sherlock, whether you want to or not. You gave your soul to me my dear, and now it's my turn to take it from you."

As the needle pressed on the base of Sherlock's neck, not surprisingly, the detective fainted, going limp in Jim's grasp from exhaustion and fear. Before continuing on with his plan, Moriarty bent down to whisper in Sherlock's ear, even if the consulting detective couldn't hear him.

"I don't want to burn the heart out of you anymore Sherlock. I want you to burn the goodness out of your heart, until it beats for no one but me."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock! Sherlock belongs to its rightful and respected owners! Enjoy

Ch. 3-Happiness in Black Ink

When Sherlock first regained consciousness, he was aware of the soft mattress beneath him, and the heavy sheets on top of him. He also felt a dull pain on the back of his neck, but the thought of why he felt such pain unnerved him, so he went back to focusing on the other parts of the room around him. Not opening his eyes yet, Sherlock listened carefully for any sounds that could give away any clues about his room. For a moment all he could hear was the bed rustling upon the movement of his chest as he breathed in and out, until a shrill voice cut through the silence.

"What do you hear?"

Sherlock's eyes popped open at this, but the rest of his face remained completely neutral. It wasn't too surprising that Jim was in his room, for the man did have a tendency to watch over him as seen by the many hidden cameras Sherlock had found in 221B.

"I was in the middle of listening for sounds when you rudely interrupted," came Sherlock's calm but fierce reply. Turning his head, Sherlock spotted Moriarty staring at him from a corner of the room. The consulting criminal was sitting in the only chair present in the small area, with a file filled with papers in his hands and a grin on his face.

"Yes, well, I was waiting a long time for you to wake up you know," he spoke, like he was explaining something to a five year old.

"How long was I unconscious?" Sherlock sat up, blinking his eyes a few times as they got further adjusted to the light.

"Just eight hours or so," Jim responded nonchalantly, picking at his nails. "But you were out cold, didn't even wake up when I moved you. When was the last time you bothered to sleep?"

"Because of course I fainted due to a lack of sleep rather than you ripping my hair out and threatening me with a tattoo needle," Sherlock hissed back, but this snap only made Moriarty's grin widen as he got up from his seat, stalking over to Sherlock's bed slowly. The detective's nerves froze as Jim came uncomfortably close to Sherlock's bedside and placed the file on his lap, eyes never leaving his neck.

"You look good with a tattoo my dear," the words caused the hairs on Sherlock's neck to stand straight up, and goosebumps to form on his arms. Even with his stoic exterior, Sherlock couldn't help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth hearing this. Anger coursed through him as he thought of Jim Moriarty defacing him with the vile ink. But as his eyes traveled to the file on his lap, he knew it held the information he needed about the first target. So with a deep breath, Sherlock didn't respond to the comment and opened the file, beginning to read.

Jim didn't say anything either, leaving the bedside and heading for the door to the room. It was only when he was almost out of the quarters when he looked at Sherlock one last time.

"When you're done with your reading, you can come join me in my office," he spoke with a smirk. "And don't try to do too much poking around, you might end up angering a few snipers." With a wink, the consulting criminal disappeared, the door closing shut with a click.

Immediately Sherlock flew out of the bed, heading straight for the other door in the room, that he could only assume was to a bathroom which held a mirror. Upon opening the door, the detective indeed was greeted by a bathroom, with a fairly sized mirror hanging on the wall in front of him. Pulling his shirt off in one desperate tug, Sherlock turned so that his back faced the mirror, while he strained his neck to turn and around and see what it said. When he finally was able to make out the tattoo, a large lump formed in the back of his throat. His nostrils flared in revulsion, and his knuckles turned white as he tightened his hands into fists. He was outraged; how dare Moriarty do this to him.

On the back of his neck were two small black letters:

JM

* * *

Mycroft walked calmly down from his room at the Diogenes Club into his car. Upon getting in and becoming comfortable, he gave the driver the address; Scotland Yard. As the car pulled out from in front of the building, the elder Holmes looked at the passerby with disdain as he subconsciously deduced little bits and facts about their lives. Goldfish. All of them.

Normally Mycroft wasn't the one traveling, rather he usually had his clients conveniently taken to a destination of his choosing. However, that was often done for intimidation, and as it was shaping up that he might need a certain ally from London's finest police force, he didn't want to show off his power play and annoy anyone...yet. So Mycroft just sighed and passed his time by looking out the car window and making up little stories about everyone who he saw for an instant. What he could deduce immediately was twisted and evaluated until Mycroft had invented lives for at least fifty people, with most of the stories being fairly accurate.

However, upon his arrival at Scotland Yard, Mycroft signaled for the driver to stop, which the man did. Thinking back to the matter at hand, the backbone of the British government calmly opened the door and stepped out, looking around as he saw officers and detectives milling about. His subconscious began to look and scan again, but he quickly walked from the car into the building, where he almost ran into the man he so wanted to see. Detective Inspector Lestrade was nearly flying out of the door with papers in his hand, most likely on a lead that would turn into a dead end and cause the Detective Inspector to head to the flat 221 B for help. However, before he could get the chance, Lestrade was met with Mycroft's tall and sturdy frame, leaning on his umbrella and taking up all of the doorway.

"Look buddy could you move please?" Lestrade asked, not seeing exactly who was standing in front of him as he was trying to get out to get on a case. "If your here for a report, one of my officers can talk to you-

"Let's not waste time Detective Inspector," Mycroft cut him off. "We both know that those papers in your hands aren't very useful and neither is the lead you're most likely rushing out for, and you'll be going to my brother's flat by the end of the day after no progress."

Lestrade stared at the elder Holmes for a long moment before speaking hesitantly,

"Mycroft."

"Gregory."

Lestrade continued to look at Mycroft, not speaking or breathing for that matter, until he let out a gentle sigh and turned back toward the inside of his office, away from the door.

"I assure you Gregory, this matter is of the utmost importance," Mycroft explained as he followed the Detective Inspector into the building, tailing the man as he was lead through hallways and around corners until they reached Lestrade's own office. After the elder Holmes had slipped through, Lestrade shut the door and walked over to his desk, motioning for Mycroft to take a seat. After doing so, Mycroft began.

"It has come to my attention that Sherlock has...disappeared," he began.

"Disappeared?" Lestrade spoke the word, cocking an eyebrow. "So he isn't at 221B?"

"No," came the reply. "He left some time around noon yesterday. The last person to see him was John. Then he disappeared."

"But I thought people under your watch didn't disappear," Lestrade looked up at Mycroft. "Isn't that...sort of...your job?"

"Which is why it's more alarming," Mycroft responded. "It doesn't concern me when Sherlock wants to disappear from society, what unnerves me is when he slips from under my gaze, and this is the second time recently he has done so. The first time I thought it was mistake, but I should have known better. Whatever he is doing, he is deliberately trying to avoid me."

"So he's trying to avoid authority," Lestrade picked up. "Criminal intent?"

Mycroft paused, admiring Gregory for his cleverness before continuing.

"A smart conclusion, but my brother has never bothered for laws, Gregory, and doesn't concern himself with what label they give his intent."

"He could have been captured?" Lestrade suggested. "Maybe he's being blackmailed. Moriarty has returned, perhaps something's happening with the two of them."

"It appears that that is the most likely conclusion," Mycroft sighed, holding his head in his hands. "I was hoping you might be able to offer an explanation that differs from my own but it appears not. I'll have to get looking right away, the longer my brother remains in the presence of Jim Moriarty, the less likelihood of me being able to rescue him."

"Anything I can do?" Lestrade asked.

"No Gregory," Mycroft spoke as he rose from the chair. "You have already done so much for me by listening to me. I ask one thing though."

"Anything," the Detective Inspector replied.

"Don't tell John." With that ominous warning, Mycroft was walking out of the office, leaving Lestrade seated at his desk with more than a headache.

* * *

Sherlock always liked a new environment to analyze and decode, but there was something about the underground mansion of Moriarty that made the excitement double, and pushed him around corners and up stairwells that he knew he wasn't supposed to be exploring. He really couldn't help himself though; everything in this place was full of deductions, little bits and pieces that kept pulling at Sherlock's attention, dragging him down another hallway and then another and so on. Jim had given him the task of finding his office on his own, but Sherlock doubted the criminal had wanted him to go this far off the beaten path. Then again, maybe the mastermind was watching him on some secret camera footage right now, getting a kick out of the consulting detective playing super sleuth. Going with the idea that the second scenario was more likely, Sherlock decided that if he really did go somewhere Jim didn't want him to visit, the criminal would have guards there in a minute or two to haul him away.

However, just because this place was interesting to explore, didn't mean Sherlock felt comfortable here. His excitement and fear were battling inside him; every corner he turned he expected to see a gun pointed at his face, every hallways he walked down he suspected a booby trap somewhere in place. And beneath those emotions, there was anger, rage at Jim Moriarty for what he had done to his body. Sherlock's neck pushed out a constant ache, reminding the detective every minute of what was now a permanent part of his skin. He had suspected that Moriarty might have given him a tattoo, but he didn't think the man would mark him like a piece of property.

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't pay attention and pushed through a door that clearly wasn't marked 'Jim Moriarty's Office'. What he came face to face with was indeed a revolver, pointed right at him. At the other end of the gun was a hard looking man, taller than Sherlock with brown hair, brown eyes, and scars all over his body. He was definitely in the military, as seen by the absence of shaking in his hand as he held the gun, but there was something far more sinister to this man than what met the eye.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said casually, not moving a muscle. "What a pleasure it is see you again."

"The pleasure's all mine," Sherlock quipped just as casually. "Sebastian."

"Would you like to get that gun out of my face?" Sherlock took a step closer to Moran, watching him to see his reaction. He had to learn more about this man, test his limits.

"Would you like to get yourself out of my office?" came the reply, and with that, Sebastian took a step closer as well, so that the gun was within an inch of Sherlock's nose. After a moment of silence, Sherlock was able to read even closer into Sebastian Moran at such a short distance. And his reading told him everything he needed to know.

"I was curious to see when Jim was going to get you out of prison," Sherlock rattled on, still unfazed by the revolver.

"He got me out the day after you came," Sebastian explained. "Seems like perfect timing that you gave me the message and he broke me out so I could give it to him."

"Timing is one of my strong suits," Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Perhaps," Sebastian eyed Sherlock, looked at the door, then slowly put down the gun. As he was placing it on a nearby desk, Sherlock caught sight of his wrist, his eyes pulled to the familiar JM in black ink on his skin. Sebastian followed the detective's line of sight and quickly covered it, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a scowl.

"So will you please get out?" he snapped. At this, Sherlock looked at Sebastian one more time, before turning to go. Upon opening the door, he was stopped by the sniper's words behind him.

"He smiled when I told him about you, about your request to see him. He was so happy he couldn't sleep that night. Always so happy when it's about you."

Sherlock wasn't sure if these words were supposed to comfort or annoy him, but all they did was put him on edge. Moriarty's obsession with him had been one particularly hazy subject; the criminal made it appear like he obsessed over Sherlock but the detective had never been sure if it was just part of the act. Hearing someone else observe Moriarty's behavior and reach the same conclusions was shocking. Leaving the doorway, Sherlock didn't utter another word. Instead, he walked through the criminal headquarters at a much faster pace, trying to find the criminal who was always happy to see him.

The criminal that deep down, even though he pushed it way down and never admitted it, he was always happy to see.


End file.
